


Starving Gods

by sevansa



Series: A study in monstrosity [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blindness, Body Horror, Gen, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Jon is not having a good time, Self-Mutilation, Starvation, of sorts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-05-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:55:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23771173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevansa/pseuds/sevansa
Summary: Jon Is teetering on the edge of a precipice, hunger and exhaustion dogging his footsteps and he is on the verge of doing something horrific, something unforgivable.ORWhat if Jon ended up blinding himself after all?
Relationships: Basira Hussain & Jonathan Sims, Georgie Barker & Jonathan Sims, Jonathan Sims & Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Martin Blackwood & Jonathan Sims, Melanie King & Jonathan Sims
Series: A study in monstrosity [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1754146
Comments: 166
Kudos: 563





	1. I

Jon Is teetering on the edge of a precipice, hunger and exhaustion dogging his footsteps and he is on the verge of doing something horrific, something unforgivable.

It didn’t seem so unforgivable before.

It doesn’t feel unforgivable now.

He’s not sure when the cost of his survival became so… daunting.

He is sitting under a tree in the local park, a book lying forgotten on his lap. The day is an objectively nice one, he remembers having the vague thought that some fresh air would do him some good; now he worries it was an excuse, a deception.

How can you blame a starving man for eating when presented with a buffet?

The day is beautiful, the sun is shining, and the wind is mild. Obviously, the vast majority of Londoners agree, for the park is brimming with people and those people are brimming with tales.

Jon sits, hands shoved under him as if the inconsequential weight of his body is enough to stop him from -metaphorically- lunging at the lady-in-blue playing fetch with her dog ( A Bernese Mountain dog) the knowledge pours into his head along with a million other tiny details on dogs and their breeds. He doesn’t _care_ about dog breeds, and now his head hurts.

Jon winces, and forces himself to focus on his book, trying in vain to make sense of the words.

His eyes stray back to the woman and thinks of leaving, he thinks of Basira calling him a monster –not viciously, never viciously, but matter of fact. Jon is a monster—an avatar of Beholding.

He swallows and thinks of leaving, but there is an emptiness, a hollow pulsing ache inside his bones, similar and somehow so very dissimilar to hunger. A weakness to his limbs a feebleness to his words.

It can stop.

He can make it stop.

It will be so very easy. The woman is aching to have someone believe her, to have someone listen to her story and not call her crazy after. It will be a ...mutually beneficial affair, the woman will vent, and he will feed. He just has to go up to the woman and ask for her story and she will be ever so grateful; He can almost see the faint strands of silky webs surrounding her body, beckoning him.

He blinks and the webs are gone, but the Eye is pulsing along the beat of his heart, urging him out from the shadows, urging him towards the woman.

Jon is _starving._

But… _t_ _hey_ would know.

They would know and they would -quite possibly- kill him for it.

Melanie would be pleased to be rid of him, the root of all her problems (but is he really?)

Basira… Basira would be grim, she will take no joy in it, but she will do what has to be done, she is a protector now, and would not hesitate to rid them –rid _Daisy_ of a perceived threat.

He tries to think of how Daisy would react and finds himself undecided. A couple of months –lifetimes – ago, she’d have been the one to pull the trigger. Things have been different since the coffin.

Martin… Martin probably wouldn’t realize until too late.

Besides, it is selfish to rely on Martin for protection, not when Jon is really, truly, _consciously,_ considering feeding his god.

So Jon sits on the edge, teetering between two extremes, two choices. This temptation wouldn’t have been an issue back in the archives. He wonders, how was he allowed to step away from the ever-watchful eyes that follow him in the Institute anyway?

The thought is interesting enough that he has to stop and examine it further. By all accounts, someone should have stopped him from going out, or at least insisted on escorting him.

Then why…?

A test.

The more paranoid parts of his brain -the one he thought was gone along with a museum and an assistant- whisper to him.

A test.

The thought would have angered him, a life-time ago, now it seems... fair.

They want to see if he could be trusted, if there is enough of Jon left inside the Archivist to warrant his life.

He can feel no eyes on him though, at least, no eyes that are not wondering at this scarred, exhausted, wraith of a man watching a woman with an alarming intensity. (Will anyone call the cops on him? that would be... funny really.)

It’s not like they have to watch him, they will know, if Jon fed.

Jon spares a second to feel... _something_ at that, guilt? frustration? anger? It's harder to think clearly nowadays. 

Jon has been steadily getting worse, losing bits and pieces of himself to the Eye to the all-consuming hunger that chips at his bones and drains his life. And they have laid witness to it all.

Jon is finding this existence to be… intolerable.

Daisy is enduring, he reminds himself firmly.

Something inside him –beholding— is quick to assure him that he and Daisy are nothing alike.

Her hunger weakens her.

His hunger would kill him.

Jon stands up, the book sliding off his lap, he gives it no mind, He takes a wobbling step forward, eyes fixed on the woman and he can almost taste the story, taste her horror, tangy.

She is smiling, enjoying the fresh air, the bright sun, her dog’s company. She is so _grateful_ to be alive; Jon _knows_.

It will be so easy to pull on the threads around her mind to unravel the tale, the horrific encounter she had with the Web. His mind sings in anticipation. He is starving, weak and perishing, and she is nourishment.

He takes another step and the world is just him and her and the pulsing live thing that is pulling him along on a string.

Something knocks into him and he startles out of the daze, Jon blinks, confused and the woman is there right in front of him.

Sound filters back slowly “—orry, He just gets so excited sometimes, are you okay?” She says, all apologetic warmth and pulsing life.

Jon inhales sharply “I-it’s fine.” He stutters out and turns on heel, promptly marching away, military-quick back towards the institute, ignoring the confused look the woman is giving his back.

The horrifying reality of what he was about to do is crashing on him and filling his head with static.

He is shaking and is not sure if it's due to the hunger or the realization.

He forgot his book.

He's not sure how he made it back without collapsing, but he’d done it, somehow. Jon ignores the looks that's being thrown his way as he makes his unsteady way down towards the archives, eyes blurry and ears stuffed full of cotton.

He stops just outside the archives, and _knows_ that all three of them, Basira, Melanie and Daisy, are in the assistants' outer office, Jon takes a second to compose himself, it doesn’t really work but at least he can pretend that he doesn’t look as bad as he feels.

He catches the look on Basira’s face as he makes his way back towards his office.

She looks guilty. She also looks pleased.

Jon doesn't try to know what she or the other two are thinking, but something inside him preen at being right, so it was a test after all.

Maybe he's not as paranoid as he as he thought he was.

The thought is... somewhat hilarious.

He shuts the office door as softly and steadily as he can manage but not before he picks out some hushed words being thrown around.

“He doesn’t look any better, huh?”

Jon would care, if he had the energy to spare.

He stops and leans back on the door, the office is dark and dusty, the same way it has always been, there is a cot shoved in a corner now though, extremely unprofessional, but... well, Jon doesn’t _care_ now does he.

His legs feel brittle, and the thought of walking all the way to his chair feels like torture so he slides against the door and sits down on the floor, looking for all the world like a marionette with its strings cut off. 

He... really wants the Admiral.

His eyes dart around and lands on one of the many statements that crowd his office, He could read a statement. One that might make him feel vaguely human –HA!

The old statements are… stale. They are merely a temporary fix, they might stop the shaking, but will in no way fill the emptiness that is consuming him from inside out.

It has been weeks since the last live statement, and Jon is dying.

In a very literal sense.

He is not sure if the others know, he doubts they know, he… _hopes_ that they don't know.

Because the alternative… the alternative is them knowing and not caring, and that’s okay, really, they are not friends, and he _is_ the reason they are all trapped in this mess, but it still –it hurts. The thought of _Martin_ knowing and being fine with Jon Pershing -another monster gone, good riddance- is achingly painful.

It’s not his fault. He’s as much a victim as the rest of them, it’s not his fault, it’s _not._

Jon is not sure who he’s trying to convince anymore.

He's not sure how long he spent there, dazed and numb, a tape-recorder whirring away and a statement just within reach, a soothing lullaby if there ever was one.

There is a knock on his door and Jon doesn't answer, he doesn't think he could, even if you wanted to, someone tries to push the door open, but stops at the first sign of resistance. “You should eat something, Jon.” That’s Daisy.

Jon is not sure he can stomach physical food right now.

He doesn’t respond.

The sound of a plate being set, retreating footsteps.

Silence.

Jon is left to wallow in self-pity in peace.

His grandmother would be so disappointed in him, he thinks with a disparaging twitch of the lips. She would be so ashamed, seeing him like this. “Get off the floor Jonathan, honestly, where are your manners?” she would have said, tiny and grey and strict.

“Go on then, eat a statement.” She would say, no-nonsense, she had no patience for those who wallow in self-pity, she was a firm believer of accepting your circumstances and making the best of them.

Jon learned to admire it: that stubborn preserves.

Hours-days-years later, Jon grabs a statement. 

He walks on unsteady legs and collapses on his chair. He starts, voice halting and faint

“Statement of Erica Bellows, regarding a vanishing staircase, original statement taken 10th of April 2013. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, The Archivist. Statement Begins-”

He knows his way through the statement more than he actually reads it, and by the end of it he feels- not better, never better- but a little settled, at least his eyes are not blurry anymore, he thinks wryly. He can make out the shape of a long-forgotten cup of tea on the desk and Jon is painfully reminded of Martin, sequestered away somewhere where Jon can’t reach him.

He squashes that thought and the subsequent stab of pain that it generates and grabs another statement.

He reads more statements that day than he ever had before, one after the other after the other, The Vast, The Eye, The Spiral, The Hunt, another Spiral and one Corruption, on and on and on, an amalgamation of horror and fear and dread.

Chasing relief, chasing contentment and finding neither. But he is feeling marginally better now, feeling more grounded and less hazy, as if he had added days more to his fading life.

A fresh statement would have added weeks.

Life goes on.

He finds Eric Delano’s statement.

It is… as horrifying as anything else nestled into these shelves, if not more so.

But Jon is starving and dying, a slow painful death one that can only be postponed by feeding on crumbs, never prevented.

Not if he doesn’t feed his god.

Sometimes, it feels like he’d been living on borrowed time since he woke up from that coma. He should have died then, he should have died, because he wasn’t prepared for the price his choice demanded.

It would have been much better for everyone involved if he’d chosen death then.

Daisy would still be in The Buried. He reminds himself. The one good thing he’s done since waking up.

Maybe that’s enough, he’s done his one good deed and he could just… let go.

Realistically -and lately Jon’s been out of the self-delusion game- Jon is looking at a couple of weeks of slow deterioration filled with more horrifying encounters with entities and avatars. A short life of pain that is going to end with his death.

It is… a lot.

Jon is slumped at his desk, Eric and Gertrude’s voices echoing in his head. He closes his eyes and tries to think rationally.

He… doesn’t _want_ to die.

He doesn’t want to tun into a monster either.

The choice is seemingly very simple.

He can make this all end.

And maybe he won’t be much use to the others, but at least he will be one less thing for them to worry about, and Basira is more than capable of taking care of the archives.

It is selfish- he feels- selfish thinking about this.

And scared.

But Jon has been constantly scared since the first time those thrice-damned silvery worms managed to breach the archives and it is a feeling he’s learned to live with day in and day out.

He will obviously tell the others about this. It is their choice -for a given value of choice, here- He needs to make sure it works first. Well, that's what he tells himself anyway.

Jon… doesn’t want to lose his vision.

The though in and off itself is enough to get his stomach roiling and head pulsing. He can’t imagine living without his eyes.

He doesn’t have long to live anyway.

Maybe it will be better for him if he just gave in, if he just- resigned himself to a slow painful death via starvation.

It is… a terrible choice, one that he has to make. The fact that when he first heard it, it was with a recoil of visceral disgust, but-

Maybe-

Maybe, this is what he must do, The Eye didn’t want him to know this. It was- not scared, an entity of fear and dread does not itself feel fear, but maybe it felt inconvenienced, having to find a new avatar, what with Elias being locked up, maybe it wanted to preserve its one agent with a free (semi-free anyway) reign over the world.

Jon locks the door.

.

.

.

.

.

There is … surprisingly little blood, all things considered.

.

.

.


	2. II

“Ah Detective, it’s always a pleasure.”

“Cut the crap, Elias, what do you want? You said it was urgent.”

The man smiles genially and leans back on the metal chair of the bare interrogation room. “It is.” he says.

“Well?”

“You might want to check on your charges, Detective,”

Silence.

“Is that a threat?” is said lowly, dangerous.

“Oh no, I would never.” Mock offended. “Merely… a friendly warning. Jon is going to do something… inadvisable.” He adds delicately.

The Detective frowns. “Jon? What’s he done?”

“Nothing yet. But soon. You might want to hurry, Detective.” He says, the dismissal clear in his tone.

The Detective glares but leaves anyway.

Silence. The faint ticking of the clock.

The man sighs.

“Oh dear. You really are- unpredictable, Jon.” Elias says, exasperated.

The whirring of the tape-recorder stops.

__

There is knocking on his office door. Forceful, aggressive knocking, 

“Jon? Jon! I know you’re in there, Jon.” Basira calls out, something dangerous in her voice. She tries the handle and on finding it locked, she pounds on it more.

“Jon open this door right now.” She says, aggression and tightly wound worry lacing her words.

Jon registers the racket distantly; his ears are ringing. He doesn’t think too much time has passed since he- since he-

He takes in a shuddering breath.

His heartbeat pulses in his ruined eyes, a steady rise and fall of pressure. It doesn’t hurt precisely, or maybe his body is already adjusting to the pain. He’s not sure.

He doesn’t think its been long, but his skin is getting tighter with the feel of dried (blood? Tears?) fluid. He might have passed out from the pain at some point, who knows? certainly not him.

And isn’t that a novel experience. Not knowing. He thinks giddily. 

But the knocking on his door is persistent and distracting and very annoying,

He might be a bit out of it.

She (They?) ends up breaking down his door. Shame.

He’s not s _ure_ who exactly kicks it in, but his money is on Basira. Well that would be an unfair wager, Basira was the only voice he could hear anyway to it must have been her.

“Jon! what the hell- “Basira’s voice cuts off and, in its place, oppressive silence.

Jon frowns, the movement sends a stab of pain that he tries to ignore, he -painfully- rights himself on the cot and turns his head to where the sound of her voice came from.

“Hello, Basira.” He manages to get out and is surprised by how wrecked he sounds.

A sharp intake of breath.

“Jon. What have you done?” The voice is closer now, softer, pained.

He can feel her coming within touching distance, but she doesn’t touch him.

Jon thinks of explaining, of telling her about Eric Delano and getting out from under the clutches of The Eye, he thinks -with loss, with elation, with _pride_ \- of what he’s done and thinks of explaining, of giving the same choice the same _hope-_

But Jon is tired. He is tired and in pain and it just now dawning on him what he’s done- what he-

He can’t regret this. He will not regret this. He refuses to regret his choice.

So swallows and slumps back against the wall, head tilted back, and thinks of sleeping. “Statement of Eric Delano, on my desk.” Is what he ends up saying and hopes that that would be an explanation enough. He really- doesn’t want to speak.

“You need a hospital.” She says, wavering, and it is so strange hearing Basira sound so shaken. “I’m taking you to a hospital.” She reiterates, firmer now.

Jon is… confused. He’s not bleeding anymore, and sure, he should probably get his eyes looked over, but he would honestly rather sleep. Dealing with hospital staff and their questions is already tedious enough without adding the exhaustion to the mix.

“That really isn’t nece-“ He starts to say, words heavy and slurred, but is interrupted.

“Shut up, Jon. Hospital. Now.” She says voice tight and Jon is sure he is missing a key piece of information that would explain her behavior.

He tries to _know_ and is left with a mixture of loss and elation when nothing comes to mind.

So it really did work after all.

That is… a relief.

The touch to his arm comes as a shock to him and Jon flinches back instinctively, heart hammering in his throat and his eyes.

Basira’s hand falters, “I’m going to help you up, Jon.” She says in what he assumes is the ‘talking to a victim’ tone. He really thinks he should be offended right now, but the pulse of adrenaline is fading and Jon would really like to be left alone, Basira is very persistent though and if it’s a hospital she wants him in, then a hospital it is.

Basira wraps her arm firmly around him, and hauls him up, Jon immediately pitches forward, his legs feeling rubbery and weak, Basira tightens her arm and squashes him to her side, taking most of his weight. He leans on her heavily. It’s a bit awkward, him being taller than her, but Basira is strong, she makes it work. They make their –achingly slow- way out of the Archives and it is really a blessing that the Institute is empty so late in the evening.

They pause and Jon makes a confused sound in the back of his throat.” Stairs.” Basira says. “Careful now, there’s the first one.”

She keeps a steady stream of words telling him when they reach the last step, leading him through the twisted halls of the Institute. It is only when the cold night air hits his face that he knows they’re out.

There is no faint light on his eyelids, he doesn’t register the change of lighting from inside and out, there is no visual input, there is nothing. It’s not darkness, not like how one describe darkness. But it is an absence. A lack of something where once there was and Jon finds himself unconsciously straining through it to catch even the barest glimpse of light.

He only succeeds in making the pain worse.

Basira hails a cab and quickly, carefully, ushers him in the back seat.

“Hospital, please.” She says.

There is an intake of breath and a male voice says “Jesus, what happened to him?”

“Mugging.” Basira lies through her teeth.

“Jesus.” The man repeats again and promptly starts driving.

Jon has to wonder how terrible he looks if that’s the reaction he’s getting. The dried blood on his face must not help matters either.

Basira keeps hold of his hand throughout the ride. It’s nice, the feeling of skin against his, warm and thrumming with life, it keeps reminding him that he’s not lost in the darkness all alone, Jon doesn’t mention it though, half-worried that once he calls attention to it she will take her hand back and Jon would be left… anchorless. 

They make it to the hospital.

He’s not sure which one, there are two hospitals within driving distance of the institute, but there is no way for him to actually know where they are without asking. It is with a bit of surprise that he realizes that the lack of knowledge is making him anxious.

This is… troubling.

“Which hospital is this?” He asks, hoarse and tired.

Basira’s hand spasms around his and she’s quiet for a long while, Jon frowns and turns his head, unseeing, to Basira, he was just about to repeat the question when Basira answers.

“Royal Brompton.” She says.

Jon breathes out, it’s just off Sydney St. he knows, the knowledge is enough to alleviate the sudden –not fear, precisely, but anxiousness? Maybe. It is a very disconcerting feeling. Not being able to see. To know.

He does not regret his actions.

He does not.

Everything is a bit of mess in the emergency department. A cacophony of sounds and latexed hands prodding at him, people asking questions that he can’t -won’t- answer.

He is… admitted almost immediately.

They ask him more questions, that Jon refuses to answer, he knows he’s being difficult, he knows he’s frustrating the Hospital staff, and he would feel bad about that- but he is tired and the pressure in his eyes is becoming almost unbearable and the sudden movements and the hands touching him are making him jumpy, and over all, he doesn’t know how to answer their questions.

They ask him what happened and he says that it was a work accident, he’s almost sure that they don’t believe him until he mention working at the Magnus Institute and it’s then that the general air of understanding descends on the staff fluttering around him.

Their reputation precedes them, so it seems.

He is prepped for surgery.

The Doctor, a tired sounding woman, informs him that the damage to his eyes is very severe, and that there is a very high chance they will not be able to save them. She sounds apologetic.

Jon isn’t sure how he could assure her that that was the exact outcome he intended without ending up being admitted into a psych ward, so he simply nods and says “I understand, Doctor.”

The woman pauses in front of him as if to say something else, but in the end, nothing is said.

They can’t save his eyes.

This is a victory. He reminds himself firmly.

He wakes up and is surprised by how good he feels. There are bandages wrapped tight around his eyes and only a lingering sense of soreness, like he’d somehow overworked his eye muscles. He doesn’t feel empty. He doesn’t feel _hungry_ anymore. It is… a relief.

“You’re awake.”

“Daisy!” He startles. “Daisy I-“He starts, urgent, trying to explain, but she interrupts.

“We know, Jon… Basira, she- we heard the tape.” She sounds so- defeated.

“Oh.” Because there is nothing else to say, is there.

Silence.

“Did it work?” Daisy breaks the silence.

“Uh- ye-yes. Yes, it did. I feel. I feel good Daisy. I’m not _hungry_ anymore” He says, and the wonder is apparent even to him.

Daisy says nothing.

The silence is oppressive, and Jon is seized by the sudden urge to explain his actions to make her see, make her understand- he _had_ to do this.

“You of all people should understand. I was turning into a monster, Daisy. I was- I couldn’t resist, not for long anyway and I…I didn’t- I didn’t want to die.” He ends softly, and it is a confession.

Daisy sighs heavily and shifts on her chair, the sound of fabric on plastic is distinct.

“No. yes. I know. I just- I wish you’d told anyone before you’ve done it. What if Basira didn’t find you when she did? You could have been there for hours before we realized and then-“ she cuts herself off. Her voice had been getting louder, the words blurring together.

Jon shifts on the bed.

“I wasn’t really thinking.” he admits.

“That’s right. You weren’t thinking, Jonathan Sims. You never do.” She ends the words almost viciously, and Jon’s shoulders hunch in.

Silence. Footsteps passing outside of the room.

“Are you- are you going to- “He tries to ask.

“I- I don’t know. I don’t think so, I can’t- “she trails off, sounding frustrated with herself.

She’s being offered a way out, out from under the Eye, but at what cost? Jon understands. He understands intimately. Besides, Daisy is different, even if she’s not under the influence of the Eye anymore, she’s still aligned to the Hunt, blinding herself won’t be the end of her problems, not like Jon.

So he nods, “I understand…And the- the others?” he has to ask.

“Basira won’t. Melanie- I think she’s thinking about it.”

Jon licks his lips and tries not to feel guilty.

“And Martin?” He enquires, hesitant.

The silence is answer enough. 

Daisy sighs heavily and changes the subject “they will keep you here for a couple more days, they’re worried about infection, apparently what you used to- “she pauses “-do this, wasn’t the most hygienic.” 

Jon winces at the reminder, he’d used a sharpened pencil… for lack of better instruments. Maybe if he’d thought about it longer, prepared for it better, he’d have found a better, neater way to do it but- if he had given himself a chance to think, he would have backed off.

And then he would have died.

So he’s the winner here, right.

The silence is almost oppressive.

“Where are you going to stay?” She asks and it is obvious that she’s trying to move on to lighter topics, but once the question registers, Jon’s stomach plummet , because his first instinct was to say Georgie, somehow his mind has decided that Georgie is safe and that is where he has to go to heal. He reminds himself that Georgie… doesn’t really want anything to do with him anymore. It would be… extremely unfair to her if he showed up on her doorstep unannounced, demanding her help. Again.

He tries to think of somewhere else, someone else, and his mind comes up blank. Daisy and Basira both live in the institute, Melanie- yeah, no. Martin…

Martin-

Yeah,

And his own apartment is gone now isn’t it? He’s been living in the archives since he woke up from the coma.

There is a strange feeling curdling at his gut, a sickening realization dawning on him- he really doesn’t know what to do.

“Jon?”

He swallows back bile and tries for a smile, it probably fails miserably. “I need to find a new apartment.” He says lightly and scours his brain frantically for what he knows about living alone while blind. 

It is… surprisingly little.

He’s sure there will be many books… a _udio_ books that would prove helpful. Besides, he wouldn’t want to be an inconvenience, everyone is already too busy with the supernatural happenings of their lives, Jon can’t in good conscious ask anyone for help. 

It will be alright, he tells himself and worries the thin sheets between his fingers. he’s survived everything thrown his way till now, he’s sure this will be no different. 

“I’m sure I’ll work something out.” He assures.

Daisy sighs. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fucking hell Jon, ask your friends for help. smh.   
> Hope you guys enjoyed the chapter! next one will have the rest of the cast, hopefully XD   
> -sevansa


	3. III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING- internal abelist thoughts.

Something is wrong.

The institute feels strange. There is a palpable difference in the air, like a weight that had previously settled over them has been lifted and Martin feels lighter.

He feels  _ suspiciously  _ lighter and it's making all the hairs on his body stand on an end.

He’s sitting in his office going through a backlog of emails, ones that  _ Peter  _ should be answering but really, the man is barely even here, so it falls on Martin to fumble his way along, trying to answer this or that request or clarification, without making a huge mess out of things. 

He feels distinctly underqualified – but it’s not like that’s a new feeling, it is… honestly kind of comforting, Martin feels underqualified for a job, everything is well in the world.

Martin sighs and his breath comes out as a wisp of white. 

"Peter." He says, exasperated. 

"Hello there, Martin, lovely weather we’re having." The man appears seemingly out of nowhere, leaning on the edge of the heavy desk, looking rather cheerful, all things considered. It’s making Martin… wary. 

"You really should learn to knock." He shoots back instead, eyes darting back to his screen. 

" And where would be the fun in that?" 

"What do you want Peter, I am busy." Martin says, keys clicking and papers rustling.

"Ah, yes.” And it sounds sheepish enough that Martin has to look up. “About that-"

"What" Martin bites out, straightening in his seat and giving Peter his full attention for the first time since he came in, Is it the Extinction? Is it time to- do whatever it is that must be done? Martin is looking at the man and trying to brace himself for the worst.

"There are some… technical difficulties." Peter says, mouth twisting at the words as if something about them is funny.

"Technical difficulties." Martin repeats.

"Precisely! And you've come a very long way Martin, I'm very proud, I thought you ought to find out from me first-hand."

"Get to the point Peter." Martin really is getting tired of all these people talking circles around him, why can’t people just say what they want and get on with it? But no, that would make life too easy for Martin, and when was life ever easy for him? 

"I am going back to The Tundra." 

What.

“What?”

“The Tundra, Big ship, back to the open lonely ocean, I have missed it.” The man says fondly, wistfully.

"I  _ know  _ what The Tundra is- I meant why? What- what about The Extinction?" 

Peter sighs. As if the very concept of explaining things to people is beyond tedious.

Martin hates him a bit for it. 

"Really isn't as big a deal as I made it sound. You know this is such a shame, I was so close to winning- again, but well, rules are rules I reckon, and there is no bet if one of the prizes is no longer on the table.”

Martin frowns, shaking his head in confusion- “Winning? I don’t understand- why-?”

“Goodbye Martin.” Peter’s straightening up “Personally, wasn’t a fan of the working together thing, but you do make a very beautiful addition to The Lonely.”

“Wh- “But Peter is already gone, and the office feels a couple of degrees warmer. It’s only now he realizes the significance of the feeling he had earlier, The Lonely is no longer permeating the Institute.

Martin huffs an incredulously laugh. " What the fuck." 

The Recorder switches off. 

.

.

.

Melanie stands leaning against the door frame and watches Georgie staring off into the distance, the laundry she was trying to fold all but forgotten beside her.

"Are you going to visit him?" Melanie breaks the silence. Georgie doesn’t startle, even though it was obvious she hadn’t noticed Melanie standing there.

Georgie turns around and gives her a fleeting smile, one that lasts barely seconds until she registers Melanie's question and just- sighs, her eyebrows twisting and mouth curling in a mixture of guilt and anger.

"I don’t- I don't know, Melanie, I really don't- I… you know I… the last time we spoke I told him to get therapy, you know?” She laughs, a little self-deprecating and Melanie’s heart hurts. She crosses the distance between them in four quick steps and settles beside her, comfortingly close. Georgie leans in closer and rubs a hand over her eyes.

“Well, in the spirit of being fair, he does need therapy… we all do, really.” Melanie says. She… understands... why Georgie would find Jon’s actions distressing, But Melanie just- doesn’t. She understands -maybe not the exact reason  _ why  _ he's done it, their circumstances are not the same and his reasons and hers are probably very different, but she understands the drive, the  _ purpose _ . 

This is the closest she'd come to empathizing with Jonathan Sims and it is making her distinctly uncomfortable. 

"He  _ mutilated  _ himself, Melanie. I didn't even know he was- I thought he was…  _ reveling _ in it, you know? In the- the sense of purpose or whatever it was he got out of that horrible place. Sure it's scary, sure it's dangerous, but I thought that deep down he  _ liked _ this whole mess he got himself in, and I- I hate him for that, a bit. I hated that he was going to destroy himself and everyone around him, and now I- he- “

And Melanie would be lying if she said she didn’t use to think the same- somehow, she never expected Jonathan Sims to be the one to take the way out.

At least, not like  _ that. _

Though she understands the appeal.

Georgie lets out a broken little laugh and Melanie tightens her arms around her, “He was always like that, even back in Uni, it always felt like he was looking for ways to make his life harder, you know? God, it was so- so annoying at times, but I loved him then, he’s- was… _is_ my friend, and I didn't- I don't- I just don't _understand-"_

"It's okay-" Melanie tries to interrupt, to comfort, - to subtly steer Georgie into thinking that what Jon’s done is a  _ good  _ thing, cause honestly the more Melanie thinks about it the more  _ tempted  _ she is.

"IT’S NOT-“ and Melanie startles a little but Georgie cuts the shout off and continues in a softer, more strained tone “-it's not okay Melanie, why would anyone  _ do  _ something like that." And Melanie feels guilty.

"Basira-" She starts.

"Yes, yes, I heard what she said, the only way to get out from under the influence of your God but… You know, I kept on telling him that he had to quit, that there was something  _ wrong  _ with his job, and he wouldn’t, the stubborn idiot, he kept saying that he can’t- I thought he was being stubborn, you know? I didn’t really expect that it’s not that he won’t, it’s really that he can’t- and I know- I know it’s not my fault, I know that he didn’t suddenly realize I was right and decided to gouge his eyes out just because- he never listened to me anyway, I just- I wish it hadn’t come to that. _ ” _ she says defeated. “And I  _ hate  _ that I'm making this about me, it’s not. I know that. I don’t even understand why I’m so- angry.” 

"You feel helpless,” Melanie supplies, secure in the knowledge that that, at least, is right “But, Georgie. Jon, he- he did what he had to do. You know that, right?”

" _ What does that even mean?"  _ is said in desperation. And it is in this moment that Melanie realizes that no matter how close Georgie is, no matter how much she hears from them, there are just things that she won’t understand. Georgie isn’t under the influence of the Eye, and she doesn’t  _ feel  _ fear. __

"...maybe you should go talk to him, Georgie." Melanie says instead and tries not to think about how horrible everything will be, when she finally gets the courage to tell Georgie what she’s planning on doing.

**

Jon sits on the bed and a lifetime passes by. 

It’s strange to realize the amount of activities that require sight to be accomplished, and now that he doesn’t have it- he is… listless, unsure and adrift. Basira came in earlier to escort Daisy to her PT session, Daisy left, apologetic, but not before giving him his cell phone and informing him that she changed the settings to be more accommodating, and that she’ll be back to help him with it if he wants, it’s… very nice of her to offer.

Jon… is reluctant to try it out. Maybe he’s scared that he won’t be able to navigate the screen, that something as simple and stupid as a cell-phone would prove to be too difficult for him, and he doesn’t want to face that, this… helplessness, his waning independance.

So Jon sits, turning his phone in his hands over and over, feeling the familiar curves and grooves and carefully avoiding the power button, He wonders how something so simple is somehow incomprehensible to him now.

The quiet of the room is deafening and it’s hard not to let his mind wander into… dangerous territory, now that he finally has time to settle, he is starting to think that maybe… maybe he hasn’t thought this thing through.

No. He knows that he didn’t think this thing through. 

And while he  _ will not  _ regret his actions, maybe he could regret the lack of… preparedness.

His mind is quick to inform him of the many, many issues regarding his existence, the many things that he isn’t sure how to address, where to even  _ start _ ? It would be… so very easy to lose himself into the rising sense of despair, the rising panic clawing through his gut and up his throat until he can barely swallow his own saliva.

He is in the dark and he is alone and he thinks- somewhat sarcastically that this would be the perfect opportunity to be overtaken by both, wouldn’t that be a riot, escaped the Eye only to be snatched by The Dark or The Lonely.

He tries not to think, and fails miserably, there is nothing to do  _ but _ think. He thinks of finding apartments, small and cheap, accessible and easy to navigate, somewhere where it won’t be too hard to exist- survive- live.

He’s trying not to think about how much money he has in his savings account and what he will do once that is eaten up, he tries not to think about work and jobs and where he could apply his degree and- and everything is just spiraling out and he might be sending himself into a panic attack by now, but he is just realizing how vulnerable- how practically useless he is without his eyes and he’s clutching at the phone and-

There is a knock on the door.

Jon startles and turns his head wildly towards the sound, He clears his throat and tries to make the words even “Come in.” he says and suspects that he failed.

The door opens and a set of footsteps is audible, Jon tries not to be impatient as he waits for whoever it is to announce themselves. He misses  _ knowing, _ vividly.

“Jon.”

“G- Georgie! I didn’t uh- “think you’d visit, he doesn’t say.

“Melanie’s here too,” She says, sounding closer and there is something odd about her tone.

“Hello Melanie.” He says and tries to give them both a smile, because he is happy to see-  _ hear-  _ Georgie, he honestly thought that she wanted nothing to do with him anymore, he didn't expect her to come really and... he wouldn’t have blamed her.

“Hey Jon. You really did a number on yourself huh?” Melanie sounds… good. Which is great, really, he’s happy someone sounds normal at least, it’s making him feel distinctly lighter.

So Jon huffs a laugh, a bit amused, “Yeah- yeah, but it’s… it’s worth it-“

And Georgie makes a strangled noise in the back of her throat, Jon frowns from behind his bandages, “Are you alright, Georgie?”

“Am- AM _ I _ alright?!” She says and it sounds high and reedy.

“uh-“He turns his head and hopes Melanie would speak, because Jon already feels wrong footed and they haven’t even exchanged three full sentences, he misses the time when talking to Georgie was as easy as breathing.

“You’re…  _ not  _ alright? He ventures, “Did something happen?”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Jon. Yes. Yes. Something happened! my idiot friend decided to mutilate himself so excuse me if I don’t sound a _ lright.”  _ The sentence ends viciously.

Jon flinches back and tries to ignore the way his heart is beating faster than it should. He is not afraid of Georgie, he is not.

“Uh Geor-“ Melanie starts but there is a sound of rapid footsteps coming towards him and Jon cowers back and away from the sound because he has the sudden wild thought that he’s being attacked, there are hands on him, he jerks back but the arms tighten and- 

Oh.

_ Oh.  _

Georgie’s hugging him. 

Jon lets out a shuddering breath, his heart is thundering in his ears and it takes him a second to wrap his shaking arms around her. Georgie is a warm and familiar sensation and Jon finds himself relaxing without conscious thought, he is careful not to hold her too tight- he doesn’t want to- scare her off or something, but he really- really doesn’t want this to end. 

He can’t remember the last time he hugged someone. 

“It’s okay, Georgie. I’m alright” He says low and insistent. 

She laughs and it is a little bit wet. “You are really, really, not, Jon.” 

“But I am. I’m better than I’ve been since the coma, I’m not a monster, and I'm not starving, I’m not dying either, so really, this is good, Georgie.” He insists. 

Georgie lets off a sound of frustration and lets him go, Jon tries not to feel the loss acutely. “I’m going to get us all something to drink.” she says, tight. And hurries out of the room. 

Jon is… lost.

“She’ll come around, it just came as a bit of a shock to her you know?” Melanie is trying to comfort him, he must look really pathetic, huh.

“Yeah.” Jon says but he is… not in the mood right now, honestly. He just- he doesn’t understand what she wants from him, what  _ anyone _ wants from him. First they wanted him to stop taking live statements, they were right, obviously, he couldn’t keep doing that. And then he was withering away and dying, and now that he’s actually done something about it everyone is just-

Jon cuts that train of thought before it got further away from him, he did this for himself, he's the one who was turning into a monster, not them and this is his body, and his actions and his choice and he will not be made feel guilty for what he had to do to survive, and-

“I think it’s brave.”

What. “What?”

“It’s brave what you’ve done. I think… I think it was the right thing to do. I think I will do it too.”

Jesus.

“At least we’ll have something in common, then.” He mutters under his breath and instantly regrets it, he’s pleasantly surprised when Melanie snorts. 

“There’s that.” She says with good humor.

They sit in a peaceful silence for a couple of seconds, “Georgie will not be happy, you’ve seen how she-“ and he gestures around to indicate the very strange encounter -and that’s saying something.

Melanie is silent for a second and then settles herself on the foot of the bed. Jon can’t see her face, but he can imagine the look of concentration as Melanie tries to find the right words. “ I want this nightmare to end. And as- as long as I’m tied back to the institute- I… it won’t.”

The words are… a decent reflection of some of his thoughts so he nods. “I understand.”

Melanie sighs. And Jon is… guilty. If it wasn’t for-

“I… I know it’s not much- I won’t be much help in anything really, but if you do… end up doing it, I… I will support you as much as I can.” He ends up saying, as earnestly as he can.

“Worry about yourself first, old man.” But he can hear the smile in her voice so Jon lets out a huff of air and grumbles out “I’m only 30.”

Silence.

“No.” She says low and disbelieving and he gets the impression that she is leaning closer to him, and the closeness is… it’s nice, comforting.

Jon frowns “I did go to Uni with Georgie you know, she’s actually older than I am.”

“I  _ knew  _ that I just didn’t realize- 30? really?” and this time it is amused and a tiny bit incredulous.

“It’s the hair, gives me character.” He says sagely, playing along, he’s… he’s feeling a bit more comfortable now, more settled, his shoulders aren’t hunched anymore and he can relax back on the raised head of the bed without feeling exposed and vulnerable.

Him and Melanie are not friends, they are not close in any stretch of imagination, they barely tolerate each other in normal circumstances… but this is not normal. 

And there is a new sense of camaraderie that comes from realizing that the person in front of you  _ understands  _ and is willing to go through the same fucked-up process as you, that they are willing to do whatever it takes, to be… free. 

Melanie isn’t a friend, but she is here and he isn’t alone with his thoughts and the emptiness and… It’s nice. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ugh. Jon. 
> 
> So! what did you guys think?   
> -sevansa


	4. IV

“Peter.” Elias states mildly, eyes not moving from the book he is presumably reading. Even in the bare prison cell, the man still manages to look dignified.

“Elias.” Peter says pleasantly, stepping out from the mist and into the cell. He settles himself against one of the stone walls and says, “One would think you’d be more perturbed, losing your precious archivist.”

A page flips.

“It is a… disappointing turn of events, certainly.” Elias states, almost delicately.

Peter raises an eyebrow, amused despite himself. “You’re not monologuing, that’s a first.” He says, his tone lightly mocking.

“I do not _monologue._ ” Elias says, sounding disgusted at the very notion, his eyes dart up from the book and Peter counts that as a victory.

The silence lasts for a couple of seconds.

“Fine- “Elias says in a rush, straightening up and looking at Peter properly, Peter lets out an amused sound, one that Elias ignores if only to start talking, the man loves that, talking. “-Jon was uniquely suited for the role I had in mind for him, he was the perfect cog, one that would have made my plans work magnificently. what he’s done is… rash and idiotic. such a waste of potential.” Is said with a disgruntled sigh.

“But?” Because there is a _but,_ Peter can _feel_ it.

“ _But_ he isn’t the only one. The Archive is _brimming_ with potential, Peter,” He says with relish, eyes shining, “The Detective would make a rather decent Archivist, don’t you think?”

A huff of laughter.

“A significant delay, though.” Peter points out.

Elias shrugs, “I’ve been alive long enough not to care about a couple months delay, it was… expected.” And the words are reluctant. No plan ever goes as planned, right?

Peter shifts, Elias is still scheming and Peter is minutes away from being sequestered away on The Tundra, all is right in the world, “If you say so, Elias, I will be taking me leave now, the ocean is calling to me.”

“Yes, Yes, Go enjoy your solitude, Peter, I will see you soon.”

“I hope not.”

The Tape-recorder switches-off.

**

“-And that will be all, Mr. Sims, the bandage will stay on a for a week, and after that we will check on the state of the conformer and decide on the next course of action.”

“Yes, thank you, Doctor.” Jon says, trying to contain his impatience, something about how medical professionals always keep on repeating and repeating their instructions always gets on his nerves, it gets _tedious._ He knows not to mess with his eyes, he’s not an _infant._

“Well then, Mr. Sims, you are free to go, would you like us to call someone for you?” She says, and Jon pauses.

Somehow, it did not register that the insistent instructions were in preparation for his discharge. Which is… rather idiotic of him, why else would the Doctor bother with home-care instructions if they aren’t sending him home?

Sending him to his nonexistent home that is.

And the thought is like ice in his guts, he still hasn’t made any preparations and-

“Mr. Sims?” The Doctor repeats.

“What?” He asks, clearing his throat in embarrassment.

“Would you like us to call someone for you?” She repeats again, patient and kind.

 _Would_ he like to call someone? It would certainly make things much easier- but, if no one is already here, that means that they’re all busy and Jon is loath to become a burden.

So despite his misgivings he says, “That won’t be necessary, Doctor.” And tries to mean it.

There is a second of silence, only pierced by the ticking of the clock.

“Mr. Sims, I don’t think that’s the best idea.” She says, somewhat delicately.

And Jon feels a flare of annoyance, “Really, Doctor I’m sure I can manage on my own.” He reassures and stands up to illustrate the point, the hospital has provided him with a rather handy cane, one that he uses gingerly and uncertainly.

“Mr. Sims,” The Doctor says, her tone firmer as if gearing for a lecture, “—I can’t in good conscious allow you to go off alone while you’re still getting used to your condition.” And the disapproval is heavy in her tone.

Jon’s mouth twists and tries to imagine calling Daisy – who is so weak and unsure these days, a far cry from the terrifying woman she’d been- or Georgie who is a mess of confusing emotions, ones that he doesn’t feel like dealing with and just- falters.

He shakes his head. 

He will be fine. He will get out and get a cab to… a hotel or something, while he looks for a flat, contact an agency or something that can help, that’s a thing that exists right? Agencies that help… _disabled_ –disabled, he’s _disabled_ now— people settle in their new lives.

Jon swallows and ignores the ice in his bones. “I’m quite sure you can’t keep me here against my will, Doctor.” He ends up saying, bravado.

There is silence again and Jon feels the loss of his vision acutely.

The doctor sighs, a sigh of a person who is used to seeing dumb shit happening in front of her and learning to live with it.

“At least let me get a nurse to escort you outside, they’ll hail you a cab, if you want.” She says, tired and long-suffering.

And that sounds- acceptable.

The nurse is a nice enough man, and he keeps a gentle hand on Jon’s elbow through the long halls of the hospital, he leads Jon outside and asks him if he needs anymore help, Jon declines.

The man leaves, and Jon is left alone.

It’s- It’s-

Loud.

Everything is so loud, and the sound is coming from everywhere and he has no idea how to- where to walk and-

He’s clutching at his cane so hard he can feel the bones in his wrists creaking and maybe that wasn’t the best idea, maybe he should have stayed put- should have waited until someone was free to visit and he would have asked them maybe to- to-

He walks unsteadily- somewhere, the cane sweeping in front of him like he’d been shown and he has no idea where he’s going but he has to go _somewhere,_ he stumbles along until his cane hit a wall and he reaches for it gratefully, pressing his back to the solid surface and tries to catch his breath.

The sound of his phone ringing cuts through the haze of panic that has overtaken him, He fumbles out his phone and the mechanized voice informs him that it’s Daisy calling.

He taps blindly on the left side of the screen where the accept call button is and hears the mechanized voice confirm it, he double taps it and brings the phone to his ear, “H-Hello?” He says then clears his throat.

“Where are you?” Daisy says and she sounds dangerous, closer to the predator she was – _before._

“W-what?” his thoughts are a bit disjointed and he’s not sure why Daisy would be asking

“Where are you, Jon, I’m at the hospital, they said you’re discharged. So, where are you?” She repeats again, her tone a forced calm.

“I- “I have no idea; he wants to say and ignores the urge to start crying. He’s gasping for breath.

“Jon.” Firm.

“I’m… I’m outside.” This, he knows. “The- the main door… I think, I- I didn’t go far bu-“

“Stay there. I’m coming to get you.” And the phone clicks off, before he could ask her to stay on the line.

Jon lowers the phone slowly and swallows. He presses one palm to the wall behind him and breathes through the waves of panic. Tries to stop the unsteady gasping, the hurried breathes, Daisy is coming, she is safe, and she’s coming.

Centuries go by before he makes out the sound of footsteps approaching, he strains his ears for any more distinctive sounds and finds nothing, he tenses and for a wild second he thinks of baring his teeth like a cornered animal, he doesn’t.

“Jon, It’s Daisy.” She sounds winded.

“Daisy.” He breathes out, and it’s a relief. when her hand wraps around his, he squeezes it gratefully, desperately, the sob that comes out is entirely unintentional and extremely mortifying.

She pulls him close into a bone-crushing hug, Daisy is… _tiny,_ after the coffin, but she is solid in the vast darkness of his new reality and Jon couldn’t be more grateful.

He’s not sure how long they spent there, Daisy crushing him close and Jon clutching desperately, but the minutes-hours-seconds pass and when Daisy speaks again, she is angry.

She pulls away from the desperation-hold-hug, and holds him at an arms distance, still clutching at his arms, “What the hell were you thinking?”

And Jon is drained, his thoughts molasses and limbs rocks “Uh- “

“Why would you go off like that? Why didn’t you call?”

“I’m sorry I didn’t think- “and he trails off.

Daisy’s hand spasms, “You didn’t think what? That we’d care? Or _notice_?” and the words come out hurt.

“No!” He hurries to say, reassure, then lowly, more honestly, “…Maybe,”

There is a heavy silence where Jon has all the time to regret the burst of honesty.

“Da- “He starts if only to break the silence but is interrupted.

“Of course, we care, Jon, you saved my _life._ And we’re friends, aren’t we?” She says, low, something odd lacing her words.

And Jon is… at loss of words, because he- he _hoped_ that the others counted him as more than the creepy monster that suckered them into working for an Eldritch fear god, but that (Daisy at least) they consider him as a _friend,_ that’s-

“Ye- yeah. We… we are.” He says and slumps against her arm, she is shaking now and he’s not sure if it’s the muscle weakness or the overabundance of emotions.

“Then you have to understand that we- we _care_ about you Jon, and I know we haven’t been exactly as supportive as we could have been, maybe we should have been more-

“Daisy- “he starts, he doesn’t w _ant_ to hear this, doesn’t want to confront this-

“let me finish Jon, please.”

Jon chews on his lower lip and nods.

Daisy sighs, and tugs him away, he follows her trustingly. She stops “There’s a bench.” And lightly pulls at his arm, he reaches with his fingers behind him until he could feel the smooth wooden surface and sits down gingerly, Daisy waits until he’s comfortable before reaching for him hand once more and threading their fingers together, the same way they did for the days it took them to get out of the Buried.

“I can’t speak for the rest of them, but I- I am sorry. I know how hard it is, resisting the call of the Hunt or The Eye, and I knew you were… struggling,” and there is guilt there, strangled and unsure, but there.

“There was nothing you could have done.” Jon says, because there really wasn’t anything they could have done, nothing. They were thrust in a horrific situation with no answer, no relief. Jon has taken his only way out.

“I know. But at least I could have been there for you, you’ve been- you helped. After the Buried. You and Basira and Melanie you all helped. And we… didn’t. for you. We weren’t there. And for that I am… sorry.”

Jon swallows and wishes he could see the expression on her face, it’s very hard to decipher what she means from just her tone.

“I didn’t exactly make it easy for you.” He offers with a shrug, because it’s easier to focus on the things that he’s done wrong than the wrongs committed against him.

The sound of shifting clothes and suddenly, there is an arm wrapped around him in a sideways hug, it is loose and casual and Jon soaks in the comfort, motionless.

“Here’s what we are going to do. We are going to pack your stuff, and you’ll come stay with me.” She informs him, no-nonsense.

“You live in the institute, Daisy.” He says a tad weakly.

There is a huff of air and second of silence, as if Daisy really did forget where she was staying.

“Right. Then we will find a new flat, you and me, somewhere that will suit the both of us- “

“Daisy- “and he’s not s _ure_ why he’s protesting but-

“Shut up, Jon.”

“But it’s _dangerous_ outside the institute- “yes, that’s why.

“It’s dangerous everywhere Jon, and we can’t go all our lives hiding there!”

And her tone, so agitated, so alive, so like how she sounded before, was enough to actually get him to shut up, he lets out a tired sigh and feels his body loosening.

“We’ll look out for each other, yeah?” She says, and this time it is softer, kinder.

“Yeah.” Jon echoes, and for the first time since… since he can’t even remember, he doesn’t feel the weight of the world on his shoulder.

He is no longer an eldritch monster, and he doesn’t have to go through this alone.

“I’m sorry.” He says.

“Don’t be an idiot.” Fondly.

**

Martin is heading down to the archives, willingly, for the first time in… months, really. But Peter’s gone and Martin is adrift and feeing distinctly like he’s been played and at least he can talk it through with Jon, Jon would know what’s happening, and if he doesn’t then he could _know._

The archives are empty. The outer office where the assistants’ desks are placed is deserted and the door to Jon’s office is hanging on a hinge.

Martin feels a prickle of unease.

“Jon?” He calls out.

A figure comes out of Jon’s office, and Martin has second to feel relief, because _there he is-_

“J- Oh, Basira, what were you doing in there?” He asks in confusion; the unease is crawling back. Jon doesn’t allow anyone in his office, usually.

Basira stops in her tracks, her eyes flying from the papers- statements- she’s holding and looks at Martin, something unreadable in her eyes. If it was anyone else, Martin would have even said she looks- apprehensive.

Not Basira though. Maybe.

“Martin.” She says. And then stops, as if unsure how to go on.

Something is wrong.

“Where is everyone? What happened here?” He adds and tries to keep his voice from shaking.

Basira closes her eyes and lets out a breath, she mutters something low and soft that sounds a lot like ‘ya Allah’ and Martin… feels the Lonely’s hold on him waver as the worry settles and curdles at his stomach.

“Basira.” He says, pleadingly.

She nods to herself once and places the statements on a desk (Sasha’s desk) a voice mutters in the back of his head, one that he ignores with practiced ease.

“Jon he… he figured out a way to quit.” She says, and Martin is confused why she sounds so- reluctant. This is- it’s huge, it’s _good!_

“He-He did! I- “He starts, giddy and disbelieving and-

“It’s not good.” Basira adds, grim.

And Martin huffs, ‘course it won’t be good, it’s never _easy_ is it? But still- that’s- that’s _great._ “What, it’s not like we’ll have to gouge out our eyes or something.” He says, light and joking.

Basira is silent.

Slowly, ever so slowly, the smile falls from Martin’s face, and his eyes burn.

“No.” He says, faint.

“I’m sorry Martin he-“

“Wait, you’re sorry? Why? Why are you sorry, Did Jon- “and he can’t get himself to finish the sentence because of course not, that’s ludicrous, Jon wouldn’t, He _wouldn’t._

Silence.

“Where is he?” he says, and barely recognizes his own voice. It’s too calm, too…cold.

“Martin.”

“I have to see him.” He says.

“Martin listen, He’s not- “and then she stops as if unsure how to continue the sentence.

“I need to see him.” He says, stresses out the _need._

And Basira sighs.

“Daisy said they’re coming back here, to pack their stuff.”

“Pack?”

“He’s blind, Martin. Here is too… dangerous. Daisy will stay with him; they’ll look out for each other.”

‘He’s _blind._ ’ It echoes through his head and Martin is- he’s-

But there is someone coming down the stairs and Martin takes that second of distraction to blink away the moisture that’s threatening to fall.

“Oh, you’re here.” Basira says and she sounds different, lighter, casual.

Martin turns and there they are, Daisy, and Jon.

Martin lets out a strangled little sound and Jon whirls around towards him and Martin-

Jon has thick bandages wrapped around his eyes and he has one hand clutching a long white cane the other is holding Daisy’s tightly, and the way he’s holding himself it’s so… vulnerable.

He’s hunched inward, trying to make himself smaller, the steps he takes are ginger and unsure and there is a general sense of… wrongness.

Martin is… he’s- horrified, no that’s not the right word, but he doesn’t know what he is, because Jon is sharp-eyed and sharp-tongued and straight-backed, not-

“Martin?” Jon says hesitantly and Martin is distantly aware of Basira and Daisy clearing out.

Martin moves towards him, slow and shaking and _scared._

He reaches out, gentle fingers touching the edge of the bandages and Jon flinches back before hesitantly leaning towards the touch.

“Jon.” He says and it’s soft, wet.

Jon’s lips twitch upwards in a faint smile. His own hands reaching up to hold Martin’s, he gives it a soft squeeze “Hi.”

“I’m so sorry.” He says, whispers really, low and wrecked. And he never thought- He never thought Jon would do this, give up his eyes, risk death, Jon wasn’t-

“Nothing for you to be sorry about.” He mutters.

But he does, he has so much to be sorry for, so much- “I left you alone.” He says and it’s a sob.

“Ma-“

“you were dead and then you were not, and I left you alone and now you’re- I’m _sorry.”_

“You had your own thing going on, I trust you.”

Martin laugh-sobs, _Jon trusts him,_ But he wasn’t _there_ for him and he doesn’t know the exact reasons that lead to this but he can imagine, and the statement he left the others must not have helped matters, he should have confronted Jon directly, helped him, supported him, not left him alone to flounder and- and-

“It’s okay, Martin, we are okay,” He says into the hand cupping his cheek and he turns his head placing a soft kiss there and Martin’s breath hitches.

“We’re okay. We’re alive and we will make it out, the both of us, together.” And he sounds so- certain, so sure.

Martin lets out a shuddering breath and looks at Jon, bandaged and frail and _hopeful._

“I missed you.” Martin says and it is out of place, out of the blue- but… it’s true.

He misses Jon. He misses- everything- everyone- especially Jon, and maybe, maybe he has no idea what is going on, he doesn’t understand why Peter was stringing him along only to leave him half in the Lonely and half tethered –like he’s always been- to JonJonJonJon.

But Peter is not here and Elias is in prison.

And _Jon_ is here, (mostly) whole and free and Martin is just-

Grateful. Even if this is how it must be, even if Jon did something so drastic- so viscerally _wrong,_ he is alive and free, and Martin is… he’s here.

“I missed you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and that's it people.  
> This will quite possibly be a part of a series, with more content coming soon!  
> So, Thank you everyone for you support! you've been amazing. Cheers!  
> -sevansa


	5. Notice

Hi, Hi, so this is now a part of a series, don't forget to check part 2, Voracity. Cheers!

**Author's Note:**

> New Fandom! Yay!  
> So, this will be a (hopefully) short what-if on what would happen if Jon did blind himself after listening to Eric Delano's statement. there will be actual character interactions in the next chapter(s?) so fear not :')  
> Comments and Kudos are my life-blood and will be greatly appreciated. Cheers!  
> -sevansa


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